


One Word

by MissErikaCourt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Other, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissErikaCourt/pseuds/MissErikaCourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson just watched his best friend in the world plummet to his death, or did he? He's convinced that Sherlock Holmes is not dead, but how can he get him to come back? John will go further than he's ever gone before to get his best friend back in London, but everything may not turn out according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

John

John Watson couldn't believe what he had just witnessed, it couldn't possibly be true. Sherlock Holmes could never just fling himself off of a rooftop, he was far too self involved for that. Nevertheless, John had watched Sherlock plummet to the ground. He had seen the impact, or at least he thought he had. He ran to Sherlock's body and his medical training took over. He felt for a pulse, but he didn't find it. Sherlock's deep blue-green eyes just stared off into nothing, blood covering his pale skin. John had wanted to scream, to shake Sherlock from his sleep and beat the tar out of him for thinking he could put John through something like that, but John knew that shaking Sherlock wouldn't do anything now. However, there was still something in the back of his mind, something that told him that this couldn't be true. Every one of John's instincts were screaming at him, telling him that Sherlock Holmes could not possibly be dead, that he couldn't have just committed suicide.  
The conversation that Sherlock and John had on the phone just moments before Sherlock threw himself from the roof of Bart's Hospital was the most heartbreaking part, but also the part that seemed to be screaming at John that there was more to this. The way Sherlock phrased things, the way he talked to John. Sherlock always tried to give him clues as to what was going on when they were in a tricky situation through the way he talked to him, and he couldn't help but think that this was one of those cases. Sherlock told John to tell everyone that he was a fake, he wanted John to slander his name, and that was something admittedly not Sherlock. Nevertheless, John went into the hospital to find Molly, Sherlock had specifically mentioned Molly's name on the phone.  
“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly...” Sherlock had said as he stood on the rooftop, his voice eerily calm despite the gravity of the situation. Sherlock mentioned all the people closest to him, he wanted John to talk to them for some reason, so that was what he was going to do. John strode in the doors of the hospital and made his way to the basement morgue, where he knew Molly would be, he also knew that Sherlock's body would have to be down there as well and he wasn't sure if he would be able to handle seeing his best friend lying dead on a slab. He's not dead. A nagging voice in the back of John's head kept repeating the same phrase. He's not dead.  
“Molly,” John said as he pushed the double doors to the morgue open and walked inside. Molly looked surprised to see John there, but quickly composed herself. After she realized exactly who he was, she just looked sad. “I imagine you've heard about what just happened?”  
“Of course I have. They brought him...they brought the body here.” Molly stammered, looking down at her wringing hands. Her eyes welled with tears. “I can't believe he's gone.”  
John walked quickly to Molly and took her into an embrace, trying his best to comfort her. Everyone seemed to just accept the fact that Sherlock was dead, but he couldn't do that. He knew deep down that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, and possibly in this room. He wanted to look around, to search the whole morgue until he found Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't.  
“I know Molly, I know.” John said, stroking Molly's back as she sobbed into his shoulder. Molly obviously didn't know anything about Sherlock's plan, whatever it may have been, she was far too riddled with grief to have any intimate knowledge as to whether Sherlock had truly faked his death or not. “He called me, while he was on the roof. He wanted me to tell everyone that the newspapers were true. He told me to tell you that he really was a fake. I don't believe it though, and neither do you. I also think that you know that he couldn't have killed himself.”  
“John,” Molly started pulling away from him and wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her lab coat. “how could you say something like that? I've just received his body, I've seen him with my own eyes. That was, without a doubt, the body of Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Maybe, but something is off.” John said, looking around the morgue. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but he still wished he could have a look around.  
“John, I know this is hard for you, but you'll have to accept that Sherlock is dead. He's not coming back.” Molly stated, firmly but with a gentle voice. She probably thought he was mad for suggesting that Sherlock could possibly be alive. If she was telling the truth about Sherlock's body being wheeled into her morgue, then she saw him and ruled him deceased. She couldn't deny her medical training, but why was it so easy for John? Maybe it was just the grief getting to him, his therapist had told him that grief could do funny things to your mind, but then again, his therapist was rubbish.  
“I just wanted to relay his message. Maybe you're right, he has to be dead. He jumped off of a roof and hit the pavement, I saw him with my own eyes, but I'll never believe for a moment that he was a fraud.” John said, a stern look in his eyes as he spoke to Molly. She nodded, tears filling her eyes again. Molly placed a small hand on John's arm and squeezed a bit, trying to comfort him, but there was nothing that could comfort him if Sherlock really had just killed himself. That's exactly why he couldn't believe that he had, if Sherlock was really dead, then John's life would go back to being meaningless and dull, and that wasn't something that he ever wanted to return to. John gave a small, sad smile to Molly, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the doors of the morgue. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw something move out of the corner of his eye, but John kept walking. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

When John arrived back at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had been waiting by the door to shower him in hugs. She'd been crying for a while, that was plain by the redness and puffiness under her eyes, but that was to be expected. John didn't care at the moment that Mrs. Hudson was treating him as if he'd just lost the love of his life-she'd always thought that John and Sherlock had been lovers-at the moment, John only wanted to get to the flat that he shared with Sherlock and think about the events of the day again. If he stopped conspiring that Sherlock was alive, then that might make his death a reality, and he couldn't stand that. After he comforted Mrs. Hudson a bit more and let her comfort him in return, he retired to his flat. He hung his black coat on a peg behind the door, just as he always did, and went to sit in the chair that he had claimed as his when he moved into the flat with Sherlock. He stared at the sleek, black leather chair that Sherlock always occupied, it seemed strange that he wasn't there now. He's not dead. The voice in his head kept nagging at him, over and over.  
John took his mobile out of his pocket and tapped on the text messaging icon, then found the thread that he shared with Sherlock. He scrolled through, finding the very first texts Sherlock had ever sent to him.

221B Baker Street.  
Come at once if convenient.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

Could be dangerous.  
SH

John thought for a good long while what he would say to Sherlock if he were here now. What he would say if Sherlock really had faked his death. He didn't doubt that he would have to tell Sherlock that he had known all along that he wasn't really dead, despite his initial reaction outside of Bart's, Sherlock wouldn't believe that John had seen through his ruse and would just wave him off, then they'd go back to solving mysteries and crimes, just like they had been earlier that day. John decided he would type a message to Sherlock and send it. He would probably never get a reply back, but it was something he wanted to do. If Sherlock really was dead, maybe doing something like this would give John some closure. Somehow he doubted that, but he decided to try it nonetheless. If a blog can help with PTSD, then sending a text to your dead best friend could help with grief. 

Sherlock Holmes, I refuse to believe that you're dead. I refuse to believe that you're a fraud, and I refuse to give up searching for you. You simply cannot be dead.

John sent the message and stared at his screen for a long time. He was almost expecting to get a reply, but Sherlock hardly ever replied to him when he was alive, much less now that he'd thrown himself off of a roof. Still, John couldn't bear to take his eyes off of the screen. He kept reading and re-reading the message he had just sent, waiting and hoping to get a reply. Suddenly, and only for a moment, the ellipses that meant someone was typing back to him appeared in the bottom left corner of the message thread. John's eyes went wide with surprise and anticipation. Could it really be? Was John really right about everything? Somehow he doubted that Sherlock would give up his cover so easily, not to mention he would have to admit that someone had figured out his scheme. It seemed like a lifetime that those three little dots were on the screen in the text message thread, but all at once, they were gone. John hadn't received a message in reply to the one he had sent, all he had to go on was the fact that he saw the ellipses on his screen. Someone had been typing a message back to him, and that someone was Sherlock Holmes.  
John could have fallen out of his seat at the realization that he had been right about everything. To him, this was definitive proof that Sherlock was still alive. In reality, anyone could have been typing a message back to John on Sherlock's phone, who knows if Sherlock even had the phone when he fell from the building, but John had to take it as a sign. This was a very Sherlock thing to do, type a message but never actually send it. Sherlock knew exactly what would happen if he began to type a message to someone, it had to be a sign. 

Come back, I won't tell a soul what you've done.

John typed frantically, doing anything he could to try and get a response from Sherlock, but nothing ever came. The ellipses didn't even appear again. John sat staring at the screen of his phone for hours, waiting to even just see those three dots again, but it never happened, and that was infuriating.

I know it's you, you don't have to keep hiding. Just come back and tell me what happened.

John sent another message, he desperately wanted to persuade his friend to come back, he couldn't go back to living the life he had lived before Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock, he would do anything to keep from going back to that. He kept staring at his mobile, but there was still no reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John went on sending a text to Sherlock every day. Sherlock's funeral passed and John attended, along with all of the other people that were closest to him. At that point, John had been discouraged by the whole ordeal. He stood there in the cemetery, staring at the cold, black head stone that had Sherlock's name carved into it in gray letters.  
“You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human...human being that I have ever known, and no one will convince me that you told me a lie. And so...there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...” John stammered out the whole speech to the grave stone, but it was more like a prayer. John had spent every day since Sherlock's fall trying to figure out how his best friend had flung himself off of a roof and survived, he couldn't let all that be in vain. He had been discouraged by the fact that he still hadn't heard anything from Sherlock, and that he was at Sherlock's funeral now. He wanted more than anything to be right about this, but it seemed more and more like it wasn't going to happen. John went back to his flat and made a cup of tea for himself, then sat in his chair and stared at the text message thread to Sherlock again. He had already sent his daily text to Sherlock.

This is getting ridiculous now. One word, Sherlock! Just one word! Just send me one word!

John's texts had begun to grow angrier in tone with every passing day that Sherlock didn't return a text to him. He's not dead. The voice was still there, even after a week of being without Sherlock, the voice that was telling John that Sherlock was alive was still eating at him. Gnawing a hole through his brain. He's not dead. Then, without warning, there it was again, the ellipses indicating a reply being typed by the other person in the thread. John's heart almost jumped out of his chest, this time he would get an answer, he could feel it. He stared at the screen in anticipation for at least five minutes before the ellipses disappeared again, and he still received no message. If this was a joke, John was not laughing. Sherlock had always had an odd sense of humor, but surely he would know that something like this would be crossing the line.  
“Answer me!” John yelled at his mobile, shaking it angrily as he yelled abuse at the screen. “Just one word! Just send me one word, Sherlock!”  
However, no matter how much abuse he yelled at his mobile, Sherlock would not send a reply text. John cursed and threw his mobile at the sofa that was against the wall to the right of the chairs. Why would Sherlock do something like this? Was it to let John know that he was alive without leaving a trace for anyone else to notice? That seemed like something Sherlock would do, but it would also make John look like he'd lost his mind if he ever told anyone else. Maybe that was the point, but didn't he know that something like this would hurt John more than it might help? Knowing that his best friend was out there somewhere in the world, probably in danger and in need of help, and knowing that he couldn't do anything about it. It was enough to drive John mad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It had been two years since Sherlock had fallen. Two years of John sending one text to Sherlock every day, letting him know that John still believed he was alive. Two years of John driving himself absolutely mad, sitting in the flat that he had shared with Sherlock, staring at the screen of his mobile and waiting for those three little dots to appear, but after the last time they had never appeared again. John had contemplated suicide several times throughout the two years that he waited for Sherlock to reply to him, but he always decided against it. He's not dead. That voice had grown so loud now that it drowned out any other thoughts that John might have been capable of having, even thoughts of suicide. He'd started going to drastic measures to try and get Sherlock's attention in other ways, and now he would do the most dangerous thing he had ever done, all to get Sherlock to come back.  
The mission that John had set out for tonight was possibly the most important thing he had ever done. This was the number one thing that would bring Sherlock Holmes back to London, if this didn't work then John would accept that his best friend was actually dead.  
John perked up as he heard the door open and saw the first person in a line of several others that would help him to get Sherlock back. Gregory Lestrade walked through the empty parking garage to get to his car after a long day of work. Everyone else at Scotland Yard had already gone home for the night, but Lestrade had been putting in extra hours lately, tonight he hadn't left until 1:00 in the morning. He was weary from his long hours and not paying attention to his surroundings, John knew that this would be the perfect time to strike. He'd been hiding behind a support beam that stood close to where Lestrade had parked his car, it would be easy to catch him unaware and incapacitate him with the chloroform he'd brought along. John pulled the bottle from his coat pocket with gloved hands and poured some onto a cloth, readying himself for his attack.  
Lestrade pulled his car keys out of the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door, then John sprang into action. He walked quickly up behind Lestrade and pressed the cloth over his mouth and nose, holding tight so that Lestrade couldn't struggle out of his grasp. It only took a moment before the man went limp against him. He quickly put Lestrade in the back seat of the car and pulled the keys out of the door and put them in the ignition. John knew exactly where he would set up the crime scene, somewhere a lot of people would see it, come morning. He drove to the London Eye, the perfect place to set up his scene. Everyone would be sure to see the body, and Sherlock would surely be called in to investigate.  
When he got there, John tied Lestrade's hands and feet together with rope, then he waited for Lestrade to wake up. It took a bit longer than John would have wanted, but Lestrade finally began to regain consciousness about half an hour after they had arrived. John had parked in a somewhat secluded area that was close enough to the London Eye to make transporting Lestrade's body there a fairly simple task. Lestrade was propped up against the side of his car, John stood a few feet away, staring at the waking man.  
“Ugh,” Lestrade groaned, blinking furiously to focus his vision. “bloody hell, what happened? John, is that you?”  
“Yep, good to see you, Greg.” John answered in an eerily cheery tone.  
“What's going on?” Lestrade asked as he struggled to free himself from his binds, he still hadn't caught on to what was happening. Sherlock was always right about Scotland Yard being a bunch of imbeciles.  
“You're gonna help me bring Sherlock Holmes back to London.” John let a small smirk spread across his face as he stepped closer to Lestrade.  
“John, Sherlock is dead. Don't tell me that you've jumped on the conspiracy bandwagon, too. You saw him that day, you know what happened. You can't bring him back.”  
“Surely you're smarter than that, Lestrade. He's still out there, somewhere. I've seen the evidence. I've texted him every day for the past two years, he's never sent me a message, but sometimes he starts to write one out. I know he's out there, and you're going to help me bring him back.”  
“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked, he looked scared now, as he should be. John reached to the leather sheath he wore on his belt and pulled a sizable knife from it. A lone street light shone on the blade and Lestrade drew in a quick breath.  
“The only way that Sherlock Holmes is going to come back here is if there's someone out there big and bad enough to get his attention. He needs a good mystery to lure him back to London, and that's exactly what I'm going to give him.” John explained. Lestrade's face went as white as a sheet, like he'd seen a ghost, his breathing quickened.  
“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked, panic apparent in his tone.  
“Well, I'm killing you, if that wasn't obvious. Sherlock needs a good mystery, but if that wasn't enough, I'm going to take out all the people that he cares about the most. Then when he's back here, we can go on helping London solve the crimes that no one else can solve, just like before. You're the first piece of the puzzle, Greg. I'm sorry, but there isn't another way.” John said with remorse as he knelt beside the panicking detective.  
“You can't do this!” Lestrade said. “You won't accomplish anything, John! Sherlock is dead, you'll be doing this for nothing!”  
“That's where you're wrong. I know he's alive, and this will bring him back.” John replied, pressing the blade of his knife to his victim's throat. Lestrade drew one last ragged breath before John slid the knife across his throat and watched as the life drained from his eyes.  
Once the deed was done, John didn't waste any time getting Lestrade's body to the base of the London Eye. He tied the body up so that it looked as if it were standing and used the blood of his victim to scrawl a message on the pavement below. He stood back and admired the work he had done, then got a strange feeling.  
John turned to see a black Jaguar sitting on the road, too far away for him to see what the driver looked like. The driver noticed that John was staring at him and sped off immediately. Of all the times for John to forget his gun at home, this was the worst. He paced around the scene for a moment before realizing what type of car the man had been in. A black Jaguar, the only type of car that Mycroft relied on. When Mycroft sent Anthea to retrieve John all those times before Sherlock had thrown himself from the roof she always appeared in a black Jaguar. When Sherlock and John ran into Mycroft after they'd solved A Study in Pink, Mycroft and Anthea had been standing beside a black Jaguar only a block away from the scene where John had shot the cabby. It had to be one of Mycroft's pets, and by the looks of it, he had been following John for a while now. If that was the case, surely Mycroft wouldn't pull him off John's tail now. There would be another opportunity for John to take care of him, all he had to do was be patient.

John decided that he couldn't do anything more about the situation now, and went back to 221B to revel in what he had just accomplished. He let a smile spread across his face as he typed a message out to Sherlock. 

Murder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Sherlock

Sherlock had been receiving text messages from John Watson for two years. One text message every day, and they had grown increasingly more desperate as time passed. Sherlock knew that faking his death would have a tremendous effect on the people in his life, but he had no idea what he would drive John Watson to become. Today's text message had been a bit more calm than the ones from the past, Sherlock thought it had seemed odd but decided to let it go. What could he do about it from America, anyway? So many times he had wanted to send a reply to John. He'd typed replies out twice before he even realized what he was doing, and he knew that was a mistake. He should have just let John think that he was dead, but he had to give him that glimmer of hope. Even the day that Sherlock jumped off of the roof he had placed clues for John carefully in the conversation they'd had over the phone. He assumed that John would be too grief stricken after the deed was done to pick up on any of it, but he had assumed wrong.  
Sherlock had just begun to get used to his life in America. He hadn't tried to make any new friends, that wasn't what he was there for, after all. He was there to take out the rest of Moriarty's criminal network, the last person had hidden themselves in America to try and escape punishment for helping the consulting criminal. Little did he know, Sherlock Holmes was on the case. Sherlock had planned to go and finish his business with the network that night, but something much more important was about to come up. He received a text message at around 8:30 pm, that would make it 3:30 am in London, far too late for Mycroft or Molly to be awake, so who could be texting him now? Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and gaped at the name that appeared on the screen.  
“Two texts today, John? You're really reaching now.” Sherlock said to himself as he opened the message.

Murder.

One word. Only one terrifying word was displayed on Sherlock's screen. Almost instantly, Sherlock's mobile started to ring. Mycroft was calling. Sherlock got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
“Mycroft.” Sherlock answered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.  
“Sherlock, I think you'd better come home now. A...situation has developed.” Mycroft said solemnly.  
“What's happened?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft didn't reply, but hung up the phone and sent a string of photos to Sherlock instead. The photos were of Lestrade, a friend and colleague of Sherlock's when he had worked with Scotland Yard back in London. He looked at every image carefully, Lestrade had been murdered and strung up on the London Eye, his throat had been slit and blood covered the front of his body, and on the pavement below him was a phrase that chilled Sherlock to his core. One word, Sherlock. Just one word.


	2. The Tail

Sherlock

Sherlock remembered the text John had sent him begging for just one word from him, the same words had been written in blood at a crime scene in London. It couldn't be a coincidence, there were no such things, but why would John resort to killing? Was he that desperate to know the truth about Sherlock's fate? Sherlock had thought that, perhaps, typing out a message and letting John see the evidence of it might be enough to satiate what he was feeling, but Sherlock had obviously been wrong about that.  
He paced the floor of the small apartment in Colorado that Mycroft had secured for him, trying his hardest to make sense of what was happening. Not only did it pain him that John had done something so horrible, but it was irritating that he would have to go back to London before his work was done. Did John not understand how important his work here was? Of course not, he wouldn't know what Sherlock was doing right now, he's just desperate to get his friend back.  
Sherlock had thought that he was the only one of the two of them that was desperate for a friend but, as it turned out, John was just as desperate. Sherlock knew exactly what he would have to do, not that he had much of a choice, Mycroft had summoned him after all. He had never imagined that his death would drive his best friend mad. It's funny how life surprises you. Sherlock took out his mobile and went to John's text thread.

Murder.

The word stood on its own. Sherlock felt sick looking at it all over again. He typed out a message and sent it.

What have you done, John?  
SH

Sherlock didn't know what else to say. He stared at his screen, wondering if he would receive a reply. John might have been sleeping by now, he usually was, but obviously this wasn't the usual John. Sherlock waited an hour, but when he actually received a text, it wasn't from John.

Airport. Now.

The text was from Mycroft, Sherlock had been expecting it. He never really unpacked his things while he traveled, so he gathered the few things of his that were laying around the apartment and left immediately. Mycroft had given him a rental car for his time in America, and he wasted no time getting it to the nearest airport. Mycroft had someone waiting there for Sherlock, it was still a bit of a mystery to him as to how his brother was always so prepared for everything.  
The man was tall and had an ebony complexion. He wore a tailored black suit and tie with a white shirt underneath. He nodded at Sherlock as he approached.  
“Mr. Holmes, my name is Andre, your brother sent me. If you could please follow me.” Andre's deep voice bore an American accent, Mycroft really does have a lot of connections. Sherlock looked the man over and saw that he had an earpiece. He nodded and began to follow Andre.  
“Are you communicating directly with my brother on that?” Sherlock asked gesturing to the earpiece.  
“Yes, sir.” Andre answered.  
“Could you ask him if he has any leads on the case he's calling me in for?” Andre whispered into his wrist watch as they walked, then listened for a reply.  
“He says he'll tell you everything you need to know when you arrive in London, sir.”  
“A simple yes or no will suffice.” Sherlock insisted. The man whispered into his watch again.  
“No, sir. He doesn't know.” Andre replied.  
“Thank you, Andre.” Sherlock replied. He was relieved that Mycroft hadn't put it together that John could possibly be the culprit. Maybe there was still a way to save his friend from prison, he wasn't sure how long John would last there. The rest of the walk to the plane was spent in silence. Andre didn't speak a word to Sherlock, and Sherlock thought about all the possible ways he could save John from himself while they walked. Sherlock was shown to a seat in first class, he was in for a long flight, and that meant even more thinking. Sometimes Sherlock hated that he couldn't stop himself from thinking. He decided to text Molly Hooper, the mousy little pathologist at Bart's that had helped him pull off his fall two years ago. He knew she would most likely be sleeping at this hour, but he decided to text her regardless, he would need to know the details of the autopsy on Lestrade as soon as possible.

Molly, please text me a detailed autopsy report, as well as pictures, of your newest cadaver as soon as possible. I'm coming back to London.  
SH

Sherlock sent the text and settled into his seat, closing his eyes so that he could think more clearly when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket almost immediately.

You're coming back? Who's the cadaver?

Sherlock thought about telling Molly everything, he trusted her more than almost anyone else, but he decided he would wait to see her in person. Molly and John had grown close over the years that Sherlock had spent solving crimes with him, they'd developed a friendship of their own, it would hurt her to hear about what he had become. Even more, it would hurt her to know that Lestrade had been killed.

I'll tell you when I arrive.  
SH

Sherlock thought about what he would do when he saw John again, what he would say, but he couldn't think of anything but 'I'm sorry'. Sherlock never made a habit of apologizing, but he felt the overwhelming need to do so now. He had turned his best and only friend into a monster, and he would never forgive himself for that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John

He'd actually done it, he took someone's life, an innocent man's life. John had taken lives before, but never the life of a perfectly innocent man, and one that he'd had a decent friendship with, at that. He supposed that it was worth it, if he got his best friend back though. There was a moment, after he'd killed Lestrade, where John couldn't believe what he'd done. This wasn't something that he would have done in any other circumstance, but he had to get Sherlock back to London. London would wither and die without Sherlock here to set it right, and it was John's mission to bring him back. He wasn't sure if it had worked or not, but when he received a text message from Sherlock, he at least knew that he was right about him being alive. That alone was enough to make him a little bit giddy. He'd wanted to rush to Bart's to show Molly the text that Sherlock had sent him, to prove to her that he was still alive, but that could possibly get him caught. He would have to be much more careful about what he did now. John knew that he was doing this for a good reason, but no one else would see it that way. He stared at the text he'd received from Sherlock and felt a little hurt at the words.

What have you done, John?  
SH

He couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was disappointed in him, but what did he really expect? Sherlock took down murderers for a living, why would John think that Sherlock would be anything less than disgusted by the fact that he'd just killed someone. Surely once he was able to explain what had happened Sherlock would understand. He had to understand, John only did this to get his best friend back. Then again, Sherlock didn't really understand friendship, so why would he understand that John had done this so they could be together again.   
“I shouldn't have given him so many clues this time. Surely he won't turn me in, he has more love for me than that, doesn't he?” John said to himself, still staring at the text message that Sherlock had sent him. He decided to stop thinking about it so much and made himself a cup of tea, he had better things to think about now. One of them being the man in the black Jaguar that had witnessed John stringing Lestrade up on the London Eye.  
John knew exactly what he would have to do, it wasn't part of his original plan, but he had to get rid of witnesses. He had only planned to kill people close to Sherlock. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, anyone that Sherlock cared enough about to investigate their death, but this man had thrown a wrench in all of that. He had intended for his next victim to be Molly, but he would have to hold off on that for now. John walked over to the window and peered out carefully, trying not to disturb the curtains too much. If someone was watching him, he didn't want them to know that he might be onto them. Sure enough, a black Jaguar sat outside across the street from 221B. A man sat in the driver's seat wearing a gray suit and black sunglasses, his dark hair was cut short. John moved away from the window just before the man turned his head to look, and he knew that he'd found his man. Now the only problem was getting rid of him. He finished his tea and donned his coat and black gloves, then locked up the flat and headed down the stairs quickly. He left the building and hailed a cab just outside, it seemed like a lovely day for a stroll around the park.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Pet

Aldon had been sitting outside of 221B Baker Street since John Watson had returned there last night after killing Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. When Mycroft Holmes put him on this job he never imagined that he would watch John murder someone, and someone that he had a friendship with. It had come as a shock to Aldon, and Mycroft as well. Mycroft had only wanted Aldon to tail John, to make sure that he was moving on with his life after Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's, and for the first two years they hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. However, last night he had witnessed John Watson kidnap and murder an innocent man, and one that he and Sherlock had worked closely with while Sherlock was in London. He had phoned Mycroft immediately after he escaped the crime scene. John had seen him and he had no other choice but to drive away as quickly as he could. Mycroft had told Aldon that John usually carried a gun, and Aldon didn't carry a gun of his own, if truth be told Aldon didn't even know how to properly work a gun, perhaps that was something he should look into.  
John emerged from the flat around midday, wearing the same coat and gloves he had worn the night before, not a drop of blood had gotten on them through his whole endeavor. John hailed a cab and climbed in, and that was Aldon's cue to start following again. They drove through the city of London and to a small park on the outskirts where John exited the cab and paid the cabby. Aldon pulled his car over quickly and began following on foot. Could he be going to find another victim? This time Aldon wouldn't sit idly by, this time he would stop John from killing in whatever way he could. He kept a good distance, never getting close enough for John to realize that someone was following.  
The path that John took seemed to be a long one, it was beginning to look like he was just taking a nice stroll around the park. Maybe he hadn't come here to claim another victim, maybe he just wanted to enjoy the day. Aldon couldn't bring himself to believe that killers could want a pleasant stroll around the park. John was a different creature entirely, though. Up until last night he hadn't shown the slightest homicidal tendency, but he had to have a reason for doing it. He followed John for a while longer before the path he was taking curved to the left and went under a bridge. Aldon had to keep John in sight at all times, he didn't want to lose him, not now that he knew what John was capable of. He quickened his pace as John rounded the bend and disappeared from his sight, he had to keep a line of sight with him. He fast walked around the bend and was suddenly caught from behind, a wire wrapped around his throat and tightened with a sickening zipping sound.  
“W-what?!” Aldon choked out, trying to get a look at his attacker. His fingers raked at his neck, trying to get under the thin wire that was choking the life from his lungs.  
“You shouldn't have followed me.” A dark voice said from behind him as the wire tightened further around Aldon's neck. He couldn't breath, couldn't think, but he could feel the wire cutting into his skin, the blood running down his neck, and the whole time one name stuck in his mind as the world grew darker around him. John Watson.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock

The plane ride to London was obnoxiously long and Sherlock was suffering from jet lag as he took a cab from the airport to Bart's Hospital. He needed to see the body of Lestrade, but he also needed to see Molly. She would be curious about why he had returned, and he had already decided that he would tell Molly the details in person, he knew she wouldn't take it well. Molly had performed autopsies on co-workers before, so that part wouldn't phase her all that much, but the fact that John Watson was the person who put the cadaver in front of her might be a bit shocking, it had been to Sherlock. He exited the cab and strode into Bart's like he owned the place, he practically did, after all. No one seemed to notice that Sherlock Holmes had just walked into the hospital two years after he jumped off the roof of the building, but he supposed that was for the best. He made his way to the morgue and made a double door entrance, Molly smiled when she saw him.  
“Welcome back.” She said, walking over to greet him. He thought for a moment that she might hug him, but she stopped herself before she got that far.  
“I wish I could say I was glad to be back, but under the circumstances I believe it would be inappropriate to be glad.” Sherlock trailed off, his eyes wondering around the room until they fell on an occupied autopsy table. There was a body laid out with a sheet covering it, there was no doubt in his mind as to whose body it was. Sherlock walked slowly to the table and pulled the sheet down, folding it over on the deceased Detective Inspector's chest. There was only a single cut to the throat, made with surgical precision, if Sherlock hadn't known who committed the crime already that would have told him that someone with intimate knowledge of medical procedures had done it. It still baffled him that John Watson had put this body here, and he would find out why in time.  
“So, why did you come back to investigate Greg's death?” Molly asked, padding softly over to stand beside Sherlock. She looked down at the body, her hands in the pockets of her lab coat.  
“Because I don't need to investigate it, I already know who did this to him. I only need to find out why.” Sherlock answered, keeping his eyes locked on the wound on Lestrade's neck.  
“Who did it?”  
Sherlock glanced up at Molly, her big brown eyes full of curiosity. If Sherlock could trust Molly with the secret that he was still alive for two years, he could trust her not to tell anyone that John had killed someone.  
“John Watson.” Sherlock said quietly. Molly's eyes went wide with disbelief.  
“What?” She gasped. “You must be mistaken.”  
“No.” Sherlock pulled his mobile from the pocket of his bell staff coat and showed Molly the text messages that John had been sending him for the past two years. When she got to the end her mouth was hanging open.  
“I don't believe it.” Molly seemed to whisper. “Why would he do this?”  
“That's what I need to find out. You've seen the messages he's sent me, he's obviously not well. I believe he's driven himself mad believing that I was still alive for the past two years. Admittedly, it is partially my fault, I did give him clues to lead him to that fact.” Sherlock explained, tucking his mobile away when Molly handed it back.  
“The day that you fell John came here.” Molly started, she briefly made eye contact with Sherlock, but then continued to stare at Lestrade.  
“I know, I could hear everything he was saying. He came here so quickly I didn't even have time to leave. I was still in your office while you talked to him.”  
“He was so adamant about you being alive.” Molly said, wringing her hands the way she did when she got nervous about something.  
“He wanted my attention. Have you seen the pictures of the crime scene?”  
“No.” Molly answered. Sherlock took his mobile from his pocket again and brought up the pictures that Mycroft had sent him. “He sent you that phrase in a text.”  
“Yes, and he knew that I was the only one that would know what it meant. He sent me a one word text message after he had committed his crime. The text said 'murder' as you saw a moment ago. As far as I know, Mycroft doesn't know that John is the one that did this. I haven't talked to him directly, but the man he sent to guide me to my plane in America told me that they had no leads here.” Sherlock paused for a moment and turned to face Molly, her eyes flitted from his to random areas around the room, like she was unable to look at them for too long. “Molly, I want you to promise me something.”  
“What's that?” Molly asked sheepishly.  
“Don't tell anyone that John did this. I'm going to set things right, I just need time to think of a plan.”  
“Sherlock, what if he kills someone else?”  
“I don't think he will. If I'm right, his motive for killing Lestrade was to get me back to London. I'll let him know that I'm here, and if he wants to, I'll meet him somewhere. I know John Watson, and he wouldn't kill someone in cold blood. Something has gone wrong, but I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix John.”  
“I don't know that you can.” Molly said sadly.  
“I can. John Watson is not a murderer, he just needs help remembering that.” Sherlock stated with certainty just as he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He took it out to find John's name displayed on his screen. Molly moved closer to read the text as Sherlock opened it. Only one word was displayed on the screen.

Rat

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John

 

John had just finished moving the body of the tail that Mycroft had placed on him into a spot where Scotland Yard was sure to find it, then sent a one word text to Sherlock. This is what he would always do when he killed someone. He hadn't planned on this man being a part of his scheme, but he decided to work him in regardless. What was the point in killing someone without a reason? Sherlock would most likely be called to the scene soon, so John would have to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible. Mrs. Hudson still didn't know that Sherlock was still alive, so he wouldn't be paying any visits to John in their old flat if he wanted to keep that little secret. John had to complete his plan, and that meant not being caught by Sherlock, or anyone else, until he was finished. He had to show Sherlock exactly how desperate he was to get him back in his life. Surely Sherlock would appreciate that.  
He raced back to a populated street and hailed a cab that took him back to Baker Street, then hurried up the stairs to his flat before Mrs. Hudson could even get her door open to greet him, that was for the best. John didn't feel like socializing with Mrs. Hudson. He had planned on Molly being his next victim, but everything had been thrown off. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would be a better choice. He wouldn't do it just yet, though. Sherlock would need time to investigate the newest crime scene that John had laid out for him. Mrs. Hudson's murder would have to be elaborate, and inside 221B. That would be the perfect way for John to get Sherlock back to the flat, and that was what he wanted, after all. He smiled to himself for a moment as he removed his coat and gloves and put them on the same hook behind the door that he always used. He felt an odd kind of joy now, knowing that his plan was working. Surely after a second murder Sherlock would be dragged back to London, whether he wanted to be or not. Mycroft always put Sherlock on the most dangerous cases, the ones that could cause the most strife for the government. John wasn't sure if that was because no one else could solve the crimes or because Mycroft thought that might be the best way to get rid of his pest of a brother. John had always been skeptical of what Mycroft's motives really were.  
As pleased as John was with himself, he knew that if he dwelled too much on the fact that he was a murderer now it might get to him, and he couldn't stand to drive himself mad just now, he had too much more work to do, so he decided to turn on the news and see if anything had developed. Sure enough the news was covering his newest murder, perhaps watching the news wasn't the best way to take his mind off of what he'd been up to, but he was still curious.  
“Scotland Yard is baffled after the second murder in 24 hours. Although the way that the victim was killed was slightly different from the first murder of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, police believe that the two murders are connected. We've been assured that Scotland Yard is calling in a specialist, and we will be updated on new developments in the case as they come up.” The blond woman on the news recited the lines from the teleprompter with ease, not the slightest bit phased by the news. John supposed she was used to reporting on things like this by now. The woman had said that Scotland Yard was calling in a specialist for his handiwork, that had to be Sherlock. The consulting detective, and the only one that can solve the mystery. John was sure, though, that Sherlock wouldn't turn him in for his crimes. If Sherlock was going to turn John in, he would have done so already, and John was sure that Sherlock knew that he was the one committing the crimes. The first clues had been too obvious, at least for Sherlock. He would have known that John was the culprit as soon as he saw the writing on the pavement beside Lestrade's body, and John was sure that he'd seen that by now. Mycroft would have sent Sherlock the pictures as soon as he found out about the murder. John knew how they worked together, and he would use that to his advantage.  
“It won't be long now.” John said to himself, taking another sip of the tea he had made for himself, it had grown cold now and he decided to set it aside. John's mobile suddenly buzzed in his pocket and he drew it out to see Sherlock's name on the screen. He opened the text more quickly than he had ever done anything in his life.

Why?  
SH

One word, Sherlock was starting to play his game now. John hadn't expected that, but in hindsight he supposed he should have. He also thought that Sherlock would have figured out why he was doing this by now, a mind as clever as that doesn't let too many things get past. John thought for a moment, trying to find the perfect word to send back.

Nostalgia

Surely that would get Sherlock's attention, draw him to the conclusion that John so desperately wanted him to find. John had thought at first that he might have trouble coming up with the word that he would send to Sherlock every time he killed someone else, but it had been remarkably easy so far. The first one was the easiest 'murder' the word that would draw Sherlock in. He never could resist a good murder. The second one was just as simple 'rat' the perfect word to describe the man that had been following him, informing on his every move to Mycroft. Why would Mycroft be so interested in him, anyway? That part still bothered him, he would be sure to keep a closer eye on his surroundings now, just in case Mycroft decided to send another one of his pets to spy on him.

Would you like to meet somewhere?  
SH

A response to John's one word text came in a few moments later, perhaps Sherlock wasn't in the mood to play that game just now. John wouldn't give up on it though. Now wasn't the right time to meet Sherlock in person, he would probably try to set up a trap, and that wasn't something John was willing to fall into just yet. He typed out yet another one word reply.

No.

That was all that John was going to give Sherlock at the moment. Sherlock was probably trying to think of a way to stop him now, but he couldn't be stopped until his whole plan came to fruition. He had to kill everyone. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were next on the list, he hadn't decided how he would dispose of them yet. He knew that Mrs. Hudson's body would be set up here, in 221B, as a way to bring Sherlock back to what he left behind. Of course, John wouldn't be there when Sherlock showed up to investigate, that would be far too dangerous. Sherlock always looked at Mrs. Hudson as a type of maternal figure, he'd once half killed a man for putting a few scratches on her, John couldn't imagine how he would react when he walked in to find her dead. That would be the last one, then Sherlock would have to agree to stay in London.  
“This is what happens when you leave this city, Sherlock. It falls apart, you'll see that at the end of all this. You'll see how much pain you've caused me in faking your suicide, then you'll have no choice but to stay.” John said to himself, raking his fingers through his hair. The gnawing voice from before had been replaced with a sweeter one, the same words still repeating in the back of John's head. He's not dead.


	3. The Pathologist

John

It had been four days since John had seen the news report about his newest murder and he hadn't heard anything else about it. He knew that Sherlock was more than likely on the case, but after the text conversation they'd had he hadn't heard from him again. He was growing impatient. It could be that Sherlock was keeping news of the case away from the public on purpose, so that John wouldn't know what was going on, and he didn't like that. He wanted to know how close Sherlock was to figuring out the puzzle, he wanted to know how much Sherlock knew about his motives, but no one was giving him anything. John picked up his mobile and went to the text thread that he shared with Sherlock. He had wanted to keep his texts to Sherlock to one word, but this waiting was driving him mad.

What do you know?

He sent the text without a second thought, waiting eagerly for a reply. He put his mobile down on the table beside his chair and went into the kitchen to find some kind of food, but he hadn't been out of the flat in days, and he didn't have anything in. The only thing John had that he was remotely interested in was tea, so he put the kettle on just as his phone buzzed with a reply. He dashed over to the table and picked up his mobile, quickly swiping the screen to view the message.

Why would I tell you that?  
SH

Because I'm your best friend.

John typed back quickly, sending the message and then going back to the kitchen to ready everything for his tea. The mobile buzzed again, the reply came more quickly this time.

You're the suspect.  
SH

John smiled at the message he had received, everything was going according to plan, but he couldn't help but think that Sherlock was unhappy with him. Would that hurt John's chance of getting Sherlock to come back to 221B? Perhaps, but John didn't believe that it would keep Sherlock away for that long, he knew that Sherlock couldn't resist his lifestyle, he was surprised that he had dealt with it for the two years that he'd been away. John thought for a moment and typed out a reply.

I've made a puzzle for you. I want to know how close you are to solving it.

John didn't go back to the kitchen this time, the anticipation of the next reply was too much for him to handle. He sat in his chair, staring at the screen of his mobile with baited breath. This is taking too long.

I won't tell you what I know, but I will tell you something for your benefit. Stop doing this, John. You're not helping anyone. This isn't you. This isn't the John Watson that I knew when I left London. What have you become?  
SH

I'm doing this for you!

John hastily penned his reply and poked the send button on the screen a little harder than necessary. This wasn't what was supposed to happen! Sherlock shouldn't be saying this! He should be happy that John has brought him back to London! He should be happy that John cared enough to set up a scenario so worthy of his attention that he had to come back to solve the mystery! Why was he behaving like this? John threw his phone across the room and into the leather chair that Sherlock always occupied while he inhabited 221B. He had the feeling that there wouldn't be another reply from Sherlock today. He needed to get rid of someone else now, someone that would motivate Sherlock even further to find out the motive behind what John was doing. Mrs. Hudson would be last, so that only left Molly Hooper.  
Molly would most likely be at Bart's, she worked every day of the week, people do die every day, after all. It would be easy to get Molly alone, she was the only person that worked in the morgue of Bart's Hospital, and not many people visited her. However, John wasn't sure where Sherlock was residing while he was in London, and that could pose a problem. Sherlock was known to spend a lot of his time at Bart's, before his fall that is, but could he risk going there while he was supposed to be dead? John didn't think so, but he couldn't be sure. It would be a risk that he would have to take. John had thought up the perfect way to get rid of Molly, it would have to be poison for her. John had always been fond of Molly and he didn't want to ruin her appearance by marking her body, so poison was the only way to go. It would be easy enough, Molly trusted John. All he would have to do is slip something into her tea or bring a syringe with him while he visited her, wait for the right moment and slip it under her skin. It would hardly take any effort at all.  
John had a fairly vast knowledge of poisons and all the symptoms they would cause, he was a doctor after all, and he knew the perfect poison for Miss Molly Hooper. Atropa Belladonna, otherwise known as Deadly Nightshade. The plant got its name because women in the middle ages used it as a beauty supply. When applied to the cheeks it would turn them a rosy color. However, every part of Atropa Belladonna is poisonous to humans. It would only take the ingestion of one leaf or five of the berries to send Molly spiraling to her death. John smiled to himself and set off to collect what he would need. He'd be paying Molly Hooper a visit in the morgue today, it's a shame she would never leave there alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Molly

Molly had been in her office when she heard the doors to the morgue swing open, she walked out to see Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, obviously angered by something. She walked over cautiously, it was a rare thing to see Sherlock angry, he normally didn't let his emotions show, and she didn't know how she should handle it or if he might lash out at her for trying to help.  
“Are you okay, Sherlock?” Molly asked quietly, slowly inching toward him from the door of her office.  
“He thinks that he's doing this for my benefit.” Sherlock answered, never looking at Molly. “He thinks this is something I would enjoy.”  
“Well, you have been known to enjoy a good murder. I think that might be a direct quote.”  
“Molly, don't talk, you're really not helping.” Sherlock snapped, his eyes stared daggers at her. Molly didn't say another word, she just stood there in silence while Sherlock paced around the room. He stopped at an autopsy table and pulled himself onto it, steepling his hands under his chin and closing his eyes. He'd be in his mind palace now, and that meant he wouldn't be communicating with anyone for a while. Molly decided that she would go and grab lunch while she waited for Sherlock to stop being absorbed in his thoughts. The cafeteria in the hospital never had the most appetizing meals, but she couldn't go the whole day without eating, so hospital food was better than nothing. She got a small salad that had strawberries and blueberries with a raspberry vinaigrette, and a glass of water and went to sit at a table by herself.  
“Molly, long time no see.” A familiar voice called out as someone sat at the table across from her. She looked up from her food to see John Watson, she tried her best not to look shocked. She doubted John would know that she was aware of what he had done.  
“Oh...hi John.” Molly stammered, forcing herself to smile as he sat across from her. “What brings you here today?”  
“Just thought I'd pop in to see you, it's been a while. How have you been? I think the last time I saw you was...” John trailed off, Molly knew exactly when the last time they had seen each other was. They'd both been at Sherlock's funeral, she'd tried to comfort John the best that she could, but it was hard for her to take it seriously knowing that Sherlock wasn't actually dead. Maybe if she just would have told him then, she could have stopped all of this from happening.  
“I've been well,” Molly said with a slight smile, as hard as she tried to hate him, John was still a very likeable person. “What about you? How have you been lately?”  
“Oh, I can't complain. I've been trying to keep myself busy, job hunting and things like that. It's hard to find a job in London these days. Have to have some way to pay Mrs. Hudson for the flat.” John chuckled lightheartedly. How could he seem so normal? He'd just killed two people in cold blood, but here he was, sitting in Bart's with Molly having a chat over lunch. She knew she should find any way that she could to get away from him, but she wasn't good at things like this. She couldn't think of a way to get away without seeming terribly suspicious. Besides that, he had to have a motive for being here in the first place. What did he need from Bart's.  
“I'm sure it won't be hard for you to find a good paying job. Doctors are always needed. People get sick all the time.”  
“Tell that to every clinic that's turned me down.” John laughed. Molly's mobile vibrated and she slid it out of her pocket to stare at the screen, it was Sherlock. She quickly opened the message.

Where have you gone? I need you here.  
SH

“I'm sorry John, but I have to run. Duty calls.” Molly said awkwardly, grabbing up the rest of her lunch and closing the lid on her salad to take with her to the morgue. “We'll have to do some more catching up some other time.”  
“Of course, I don't mean to keep you from your work. Give me a ring some time.” John smiled, standing up and walking out of the cafeteria. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock 

“Where did you go?” Sherlock asked as Molly walked into the morgue.  
“I went to get lunch. You went to your mind palace, you weren't very good company.” Molly answered, pulling the lid off of the remainder of her salad and downing the rest of it quickly so she could get back to work. “Did you think of anything that would help with the case?”  
“No.” Sherlock answered curtly. Why couldn't he just figure this out? “It seemed like John was going to kill the people closest to me, but the second victim had no connection to me whatsoever. Why would John go after someone so random, what was that man supposed to tell me? Can we look at the autopsy report again?”  
“Sure.” Molly walked to her office and Sherlock followed closely behind. She bent down to bring up the file and let Sherlock sit in her desk chair so that he would have a better view of the screen.  
“Aldon Porter, why does that name ring a bell. Something...familiar. Aldon Porter.” Sherlock was murmuring the man's name to himself over and over again, trying to come up with where he had heard it before. “He works for my brother.”  
“Why would John kill someone that works for your brother?” Molly asked, trying to puzzle out the explanation for herself. Sherlock took his mobile out of his pocket and immediately dialed Mycroft's number, then pressed it to his ear impatiently. He drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for an answer.  
“Mycroft, Aldon Porter worked for you.” Sherlock said into his phone quickly, then waited for a response from his older brother. He remembered that Molly was in the room and put the conversation on speakerphone.  
“Well, yes, I had him following John Watson, just to keep an eye on him.” Mycroft answered, his tone started out plaintive but he gained understanding as his sentence progressed.  
“You told me that you didn't have any suspects.” Sherlock chastised Mycroft, his eyes gleaming with anger.  
“I didn't suspect John of anything before Lestrade was killed. Aldon witnessed John placing Lestrade's body at the London Eye, but he escaped before John could retaliate. I suppose I should have taken him off of John's tail after that...” Mycroft trailed off as he realized that the murder of Aldon Porter was probably his fault.  
“You deliberately kept information from me.” Sherlock hissed into the phone.  
“As did you. You never once mentioned John Watson's name to me as a suspect, Sherlock. Are you trying to protect him?” Now it was Mycroft's turn to chastise.  
“I'm not protecting him, I just think that if I can find out why he's doing this, I can convince him to stop. Maybe I can save him from himself.” Sherlock replied, he felt too vulnerable admitting this to Mycroft.  
“Sh-Sherlock...” Molly stuttered, the word slurred as it passed through her lips. She was flushed and looked as if she wasn't feeling well. Molly stumbled, as if she'd lost her balance, but caught herself on the back of the desk chair at the last minute.  
“Mycroft, I'll call you back.” Sherlock hung up the phone and placed it on Molly's desk, removing himself from the chair so that he could help Molly into it. Sherlock put himself at eye level, her pupils were dilated.  
“What's happening?” Molly slurred, blinking rapidly as if something was caught in her eye.  
“What did you eat?” Sherlock asked quickly, pressing his index and middle fingers to Molly's neck. Her pulse was racing.  
“I had a...a salad...from the cafeteria.” Molly stuttered.  
“Where did you put it?”  
Molly pointed to the small bin in the corner of her office and Sherlock dashed to it, tearing the container that had held her salad out and opening the lid. There wasn't much left of what had been in the container before, only a few small scraps of lettuce and a blueberry remained. Sherlock pulled a small leather pouch from the pocket of his bell staff coat and removed a pair of tweezers from it, using them to pick up the berry that laid in the bottom of the container, along with whatever else remained. He fumbled around the office until he found a specimen jar and placed the evidence in, screwing the lid on tightly.  
“I need a microscope.” Sherlock said quickly, he pulled Molly up by her hand and placed an arm around her waist to support her, then practically drug her out of the morgue and into the lift where they rode up to one of the labs that Sherlock used to work in.  
“Where are we?” Molly asked once Sherlock had placed her safely in a chair and gone to work at one of the microscopes.  
“We're at Bart's, in one of the labs. I think you've been poisoned.”  
“Poisoned?” Molly asked, her words seemed to become more slurred every time she spoke.“Sherlock...in the cafeteria...someone...”  
“Someone was there?” Sherlock asked quickly. “Who?”  
Sherlock watched Molly carefully from his place behind his microscope. She was swaying from side to side in the chair he had placed her in, her hands pressed to her temples. She was blinking more quickly now than she had been in the morgue, could she not see? Sherlock got up and went to kneel in front of her, he placed his hands on her shoulders.  
“The lights...they're hurting me...” Molly said, that wasn't helpful. Sherlock moved quickly to the wall and flipped the lights off. He heard a sigh of relief from Molly as he made his way back to kneel in front of her. Only a small amount of light was coming through the windows from outside, but it still seemed unbearable to her.  
“I...I don't understand.” Molly said in a small voice, she swallowed hard and tears began to roll down her cheeks. “What's happening? What's going on?”  
“Molly, who was in the cafeteria with you?” Sherlock asked again. It was clear that Molly was confused and disoriented, it seemed that she couldn't keep her thoughts straight.  
“I can't see. Everything's so blurry.”  
“I need you to focus Molly. Tell me what you remember.” Sherlock pressed, her condition was worsening. He pushed her chair over to sit beside the microscope he had been working at before. He crushed the berry and placed it on a slide to examine it. If Molly had been poisoned, he was running out of time to save her. She was losing the ability to form cohesive sentences, and that wasn't good for Sherlock. Someone had been in the cafeteria with her, and that could be the key to what was happening. He examined the slide carefully, but it baffled him.  
“What are you?” He asked himself, taking his attention off of the slide for a moment to look at Molly. Tears were still streaming down her face and her hands were still pressed to her temples. Accelerated heart rate, pupil dilation, confusion, slurred speech, sensitivity to light, staggering, headache, flushing. Those were all the visible symptoms, but what were they the symptoms of? Obviously poisoning, but which poison? There were so many, it would almost be impossible to narrow it down before...  
“Sherlock.” Molly called for him in a whisper and reached out in front of her, obviously not remembering that he had moved her to a position beside him.  
“I'm here.” He answered. Molly struggled to turn herself in her seat to face him.  
“What's happening to me?”  
“I don't know.” He answered. He hated not knowing.  
“The man in the cafeteria...someone I know...” Molly's speech was even more slurred than before, she seemed like she was about to say something else before she broke into violent convulsions. She was thrown from her chair and to the ground where her body shook violently. Sherlock scrambled to steady her, to try and help, but he still didn't know what was happening to her. He didn't know what to do. It seemed like a lifetime before the shaking stopped and Molly lay still on the ground. Sherlock stared at her for a moment.  
“Molly?” He called her name, but there was no answer. Sherlock pressed his fingers slowly to her neck. No pulse. She was dead. Sherlock clenched his jaw and let himself fall back to a sitting position beside Molly's lifeless body. He still didn't know what had done this to her, but he had a pretty good idea of who. How could he not have seen it sooner? A man came to visit Molly while she ate her lunch, and now she's dead, poisoned. The man she had been trying to tell him about was John, she knew that she needed to tell Sherlock about him, but she couldn't find the words. He'd been here, in the same building, and gotten away with yet another murder. Even worse, it had been Molly. Poor, sweet, mousy Molly. The woman that counted. Moriarty's big mistake had been overlooking her, but John knew better than that. He knew that Sherlock cared about Molly, no matter how it looked to everyone else, and he'd picked a terrible way to kill her. She suffered and choked and died. She was terrified and confused, and John didn't even care. John would kill all of Sherlock's friends until he was the only one that was left, and then what would he do? Would he try to kill Sherlock? That seemed like a reach. Probably the whole reason he was doing this was to get Sherlock back to London, but why did he need to kill all of their friends?  
“I'm sorry Molly.” Sherlock whispered as he pulled himself off of the ground and left the room to find one of the hospital staff to take care of her body. Once she had been removed from the lab, Sherlock went back to work. He stared at the slide for what felt like days, tearing through reference book after reference book, trying to find something that matched. Finally, Sherlock found a match. He'd lost track of how long he had been there, but the sun had set while he worked. Atropa Belladonna. A deadly poison that, if ingested, would kill in a matter of hours, mainly by asphyxiation, caused by the convulsions. John must have given Molly a fairly heavy dose, judging by how fast it started to affect her. Virtually every part of the plant was toxic to humans, he'd slipped the berries into her salad and she hadn't even noticed. The berries could easily be mistaken for blueberries, and have a sweet taste when ingested. She didn't even know, and neither had he.  
Sherlock ripped the slide from the microscope and threw it across the room where it hit a wall and shattered. How could he have been so stupid? If he had just put everything together sooner he might have been able to save her. Atropa Belladonna has an antidote, but he couldn't figure it out fast enough. Molly didn't deserve this, no one did. Sherlock took his mobile out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft again.  
“I thought you had forgotten about me.” Mycroft said as he answered, his usual sarcastic tone dripping from his words.  
“Molly Hooper is dead.” Sherlock said solemnly, Mycroft didn't have a witty comeback for that. “I don't want it in the news. From now on, none of these murders go to the news.”  
“You think John did this?” Mycroft sounded surprised.  
“I know he did. He put the berries of the Atropa Belladonna plant into Molly's lunch. She ate them without even a second thought. She convulsed and died on the floor of one of the labs of Bart's, and John did it. We have to stop him. This can't go any further, Mycroft.”  
“What do you want me to do?”  
“I'm going to Baker Street to confront him. Send some of your men to watch outside, if you want, I don't think John will hurt me. I'm going to try and talk him out of hurting anyone else.”  
“And if you can't do that?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock didn't answer, he just hung up and slipped his mobile back into his pocket, then walked out of the lab and headed for Baker Street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John

He couldn't really explain the feeling he got after every murder he had committed so far. He didn't think he'd ever gotten it when he killed while he was deployed, at least he couldn't remember if he had. It was like happiness and a sense of satisfaction, like he was doing something right in the world. He smiled to himself as he sat in a small cafe, and not one that he frequented. John didn't feel like going back to 221B just yet, he'd just killed Molly Hooper and knew that Sherlock wouldn't be happy about it. He didn't think that Sherlock would go to 221B looking for him just yet.  
John sipped the coffee that he'd ordered, it was a bit dreadful if he were to be honest about it, but nothing could bring him down from the high that he had now. He was growing to enjoy the feeling that he got after he killed someone, but only because he knew that he was doing the right thing. He only felt a bit bad for killing Molly, but he knew the way that he'd done it suited her. Everything about Molly Hooper would be perfectly preserved, Atropa Belladonna wouldn't damage her skin, preserving her beauty. At least he'd left her a pretty corpse. He thought Molly might appreciate that. Mrs. Hudson would be next, although he hadn't quite worked out which way he would kill her yet. He wouldn't be able to poison her, with Molly it had been easy enough, but Mrs. Hudson would be a different story. She was always rushing around, trying to make sure John and Sherlock had everything they needed and never letting them give her anything in return. She wouldn't accept something like John making tea for her, he'd have to resort to physical actions.  
With Lestrade, John had only slit his throat, which would have been a somewhat slow death, but not too painful. For some reason, John felt like he needed to make Mrs. Hudson suffer the most. Sherlock would be the most enraged by this death regardless, but he really needed to drive his point home. The longer Sherlock Holmes is away, the worse the situation will get. That was the point he was trying to make here, and Sherlock wasn't getting it. Mrs. Hudson's death would make him see. He couldn't do it now, though. He would give Sherlock a while to figure out what was really going on before he completed his masterpiece. John smiled again, downing the rest of his coffee and placing the cup on the counter of the small cafe, then walking out into London to enjoy the rest of his day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock 

Sherlock had rushed the cabby so much that he charged him extra for the short ride to Baker Street, but he didn't care, he had to get in that flat and find out exactly what John Watson was trying to do. More than that, Mrs. Hudson would obviously be in danger. If John was going after everyone that Sherlock cared about, then Mrs. Hudson was perhaps in the most danger out of anyone else. He used to have a key to this door, but he didn't know what had happened to it after his fall, perhaps Mycroft had it somewhere. He lifted the knocker and knocked quickly, trying to hurry someone to the door. When Mrs. Hudson opened it, she looked at Sherlock in complete shock.  
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson, did you miss me while I was gone?” Sherlock asked in a pleasant tone, but his facial expressions didn't match how pleasant his voice was. He wanted to get into the flat, to run past Mrs. Hudson and scour the whole building to try and find John.  
“You're...” Mrs. Hudson started, but she couldn't finish the thought. Her mouth just hung open as she stood in the doorway.  
“Not dead, I know, surprise! Is John here?”  
“No, he left earlier but hasn't returned all day. Is he in some kind of trouble?”  
“No, but you are.” Sherlock said, finally pushing past Mrs. Hudson and walking down the hall into her kitchen. He removed his coat and scarf and placed them on a hook inside the small room. Mrs. Hudson followed closely behind him and closed the door upon entering.  
“What do you mean I'm in danger? What have I done?” Mrs. Hudson sounded terrified. She sat herself down in one of her kitchen chairs, fanning herself with one of her hands.  
“Someone has been killing people that are close to me. Lestrade and Molly have already been killed, and I'm afraid you're next. You're not safe in your flat anymore, you need to come with me. I'll take you somewhere that they won't find you.”  
“Who's doing this?”  
Sherlock stared at her for a moment, wondering if he should divulge that much information. No matter how far gone John was now, Sherlock still didn't want to tarnish his name. If he could help it, no one else would ever find out what John had been doing.  
“I don't know yet,” he lied, “but I do know that you need to get away from here. I need to hide you.”  
“If you think it's a good idea.” Mrs. Hudson agreed, she wasn't one to argue when Sherlock asked her to do something, and he was thankful for that just now. “Where will I go?”  
“I'm sure Mycroft can find somewhere safe for you. In the meantime, you'll stay with me. You are not to be left alone again.”  
Sherlock stalked around the kitchen, trying to puzzle out exactly what John might be doing right now, where he might be. The number one thing that had to happen was talking to John, that was the only way this was going to stop. He had tried to get John to meet him somewhere before, but it hadn't worked. He refused the offer and then he killed Molly. If John's whole plan was to bring Sherlock back here, then why wouldn't he meet him?  
“Mrs. Hudson, do you still have a key to John's flat?” Sherlock asked quickly.  
“Yes.” She answered, handing it over to Sherlock without even asking what he needed it for.  
“Gather your things and be ready to go in five minutes.” Sherlock demanded before he rushed out of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and ascended the stairs to John's flat two at a time. He reached the door and inserted the key, turning it quickly and bursting into the flat. Everything in the place looked exactly as it had when Sherlock had left it. His violin and music stand still sat under the window by the fireplace, the skull that he used as company before John came along sat on the mantlepiece undisturbed, it was as if Sherlock had never left. He walked through the kitchen and down the short hallway that lead to what used to be his bedroom and swung the door open slowly. Just as had been the case in the sitting room, not a single thing had been moved. Sherlock felt happiness and sadness all at the same time. Nothing had been touched, not a single thing out of order, and he knew that was because John was trying to preserve his memory. He only allowed himself to reminisce for another moment before setting his mind back to the task at hand.  
“You have to have left something here for me to find, John.” Sherlock said to himself, scouring every inch of his room. He looked through the large wardrobe that sat against the back wall of the room, nothing. Next were the end tables that sat on either side of his bed. He pulled the drawers out of the tables and up-ended them on the bed. He sifted through crumpled pieces of paper and other trinkets that he had forgotten in those drawers over the years, but he didn't find anything there except for the mobile phone that used to belong to Irene Adler. He tore the whole room apart before he was satisfied in believing that there was nothing to be found there. If there wasn't anything here, then there had to be something in the sitting room, or perhaps John's room.  
Sherlock had never ventured into the room on the third floor that John occupied, but now seemed like a good time to do so. If there was anything that was going to lead him to why John was doing this, it would be in his room. Sherlock strode down the hallway and into the sitting room where he stopped only for a moment to pick up his violin. He didn't want to leave it there any longer, and John would need to have some way, albeit small, of knowing that Sherlock had been here. He was surprised to find the door to John's bedroom open slightly as he stopped at the top landing. A trap, perhaps? He looked around the outside of the door, there didn't appear to be any trip wires or anything of that nature, at least not on the outside. Before he opened the door fully he felt around the frame for any wires that might have been hidden from his sight, but still came up empty. Once he was satisfied that he was safe, Sherlock opened the door slowly.  
The room was plain, much like Sherlock's own room in this flat had been. The walls were a boring light blue color, and the bed frame and wardrobe were painted white, the paint had begun to peel off through the years, but no one had ever bothered to fix it. The room looked ordinary enough, Sherlock had half expected to find pictures pinned up on the walls, the faces of John's victims crossed out with a giant red 'X'. He was thankful that there was no such thing here, it might have been upsetting to see something like that. It seemed that the longer this went on, the more upset Sherlock found himself feeling. He didn't like that. Usually he could control himself, for the good of his cases, but this one was getting to him. He was too close, but he was the only one that could get to the bottom of it.  
Sherlock shook the troubling thoughts from his head and went on looking around the room. He looked through drawers and under the mattress of the bed, but there was nothing to be found here either. He had hoped that he would find some kind of written plans somewhere. John had always liked writing things down when they investigated together, and Sherlock didn't see why he would break that habit now. If John was hiding something, he was doing so very well. Sherlock didn't think that John would expect him to come back here, but maybe he had been wrong in assuming that. It looked as if John was just as innocent as any other person in London, in regards to the murders of Lestrade and Molly, but there had to be something here. Something he was missing.  
Feeling exasperated, he opened the wardrobe and dug around on the bottom of it, pushing hanging clothes out of the way to get a better view. He found nothing on the bottom, but as he worked his way to the back of the wardrobe, he could feel something hanging. He quickly started removing the hanging clothes to reveal three pictures. Sherlock's heart sank when he realized what the subjects of the photographs were. The pictures were all of John's victims. Lestrade, Aldon Porter and Molly. Lestrade and Aldon's photos had been taken after the fact, but Molly's photo had been taken only moments before he'd poisoned her. She was staring at her mobile, her lunch sat on the table in front of her. Molly had been distracted by a text from him. That was when John had slipped the poisonous berries into her meal. Sherlock ripped the photos from the back of the wardrobe and laid them all out on John's bed. He was going to let John know that he had been here. He left the pictures of Lestrade and Aldon, but took the one of Molly, John was especially not allowed to revel in her death.  
Sherlock heard the door to the building slam closed and his eyes grew wide with surprise. Someone's here. He thought to himself, dashing out of John's room, not bothering to close the door behind him. He grabbed up the violin that he'd left on the second floor landing and rushed down the second set of stairs to see who had entered. When he got to the bottom he saw no one.  
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled through the flat, pleading inwardly for a reply, but he didn't get one. He searched frantically through all the rooms in Mrs. Hudson's flat to no avail. The only thing he had found was the suitcase that Mrs. Hudson had been packing, it sat open on her bed. Finally, when he had exhausted himself looking, he went back to the kitchen. He placed his violin and the picture of Molly on the table and glanced around the room. Something caught his eye, a note pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet.

I knew I would find you here, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson and I have gone for a stroll, but we'll be back soon. Please come back tonight around nine. I'll be expecting you.

John


	4. The Fall

John

 

He hadn't expected Sherlock to still be in his flat when he got there, so he had to get what he needed and get out. He had opened the door and entered the building quietly, just in case there was an unwanted visitor lurking about. He'd heard a commotion upstairs while entering and knew that it had to be the consulting detective, he'd clearly come here to try and steal Mrs. Hudson away before anything bad could happen to her. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John had come just in time, before they could actually leave. John knocked quietly on the door to Mrs. Hudson's bedroom and she answered quickly.

“Oh, John! You'll never believe who's here! You'll be so happy!” Mrs. Hudson had started, and a bit too loudly for John's taste. He didn't have time to speak with her. He quickly pulled the syringe of Etorphine from his coat pocket and pulled the plastic cap off with his teeth, then injected it into Mrs. Hudson's neck. He caught her as she fell forward, she would be out for a few hours at least. He hadn't come entirely prepared for this situation, though, he didn't have any way to get Mrs. Hudson out of here without drawing attention to himself. He hadn't heard movement upstairs in a long time, it wouldn't be long now before Sherlock came to whisk Mrs. Hudson away and out of danger, and he would need to be gone before that happened. Suddenly he remembered the basement flat that Mrs. Hudson could never get anyone to rent. Moriarty had left a clue for Sherlock there before, but John doubted that he would think to check in there. He quickly checked the landlady's pockets for the keyring that she always carried on her person, it had the keys to every room in the building.

John drug Mrs. Hudson to the door of the basement flat and unlocked it hastily, dragging her inside and down the stairs. He laid her gingerly on the floor and went quietly up the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen to pen a quick note for Sherlock. Once he was done, he pinned the note up on the refrigerator and went back to the basement flat. Once he was safely inside, he slammed the door loudly enough so that Sherlock could hear it. It only took a moment for the sound of frantic footsteps to be heard clattering down the stairs and straight past the door that John was hiding behind. He quietly locked the door to the flat and sat himself on the top step, grinning to himself. He felt like a child playing hide and seek, he could barely contain himself.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock's call was muffled through the door. More frantic footsteps could be heard going through each individual room in Mrs. Hudson's flat, but they never stopped at the door that John was behind. He knew Sherlock had found the note when he heard footsteps pass his door and trail off into the outside world. He looked down the stairs at Mrs. Hudson laying on the floor of the musty basement flat. He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, but he would fix that soon.

Once he was sure that Sherlock was gone, John struggled to drag Mrs. Hudson up the flights of stairs that would take them to the sitting room of 221B. Mrs. Hudson would still be out for another hour, which gave John the perfect amount of time to set up the perfect scene for his best friend. There would be no way that Sherlock could refuse coming back after this. He brought a chair in from the kitchen and sat it right in front of the door that everyone always used when entering the flat, ensuring that his victim would be the first thing Sherlock saw when he entered. He picked up Mrs. Hudson again and placed her in the chair, propping her up so that she sat upright, then bound her there with a rope that he had picked up on his way back to Baker Street from the coffee shop. That would keep her in place. He stood back to take in the scene that he was setting up, Mrs. Hudson's head hung down, much like it would after she was dead. He took a step back into the doorway and made a frame with his fingers, trying to visualize what he was now referring to as his 'works of art', he smiled to himself as he thought of what it would look like once it was finished.

Since he had a few moments before he needed to finish his plan, John decided to have a look around the flat to see exactly what Sherlock had taken. He started in Sherlock's room, which was an utter mess. Everything had been pulled out of every drawer in the room. The mattress was flipped over, the wardrobe left open, both of the drawers of the bedside tables were strewn across the room and the drawers flung to different corners. Sherlock had really been searching for something in here. Whatever it was, John hoped he had found it. He walked back out to the sitting room and noticed that Sherlock's violin had vanished from it's place by the hearth, he should have guessed that much. It was shocking to John that Sherlock had even gone as long as he had without it, of course that would be one of the first things he took. Not noticing anything else missing from there, John made his way to his bedroom. The first thing he saw were the pictures on his bed, but one was missing, the one of Molly Hooper. That made him a bit angry. Those pictures had been his trophies, his way of remembering what he'd done and the way it had made him feel. He felt anger rise in the pit of his stomach for a moment, but decided that, if all of this brought Sherlock back, it was worth it. He picked up the pictures and placed them back in the wardrobe where they had hung before, and after inspecting the rest of his belongings, noticed that nothing else was missing.

For a moment, John wondered what Sherlock's face would look like when he walked in to see the woman that had, for all intents and purposes, been his mother at different points in his life dead in their sitting room. He didn't like thinking of that, for some reason. Probably because he knew that it wouldn't be pleasant for Sherlock, but what Sherlock had done hadn't been pleasant for John. He needed to make Sherlock see that the pain that they'd caused each other had only made their friendship stronger. That would bring him back.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson's frightened voice wondered up the stairs and into John's bedroom. A smirk spread across his face as he turned to walk down to the sitting room.

“He's not here, Mrs. Hudson.” John replied as he appeared in the doorway before her. She was struggling to free herself from her binds, but it was no use. She looked at John with a confused expression.

“What's going on? John, who's done this?” She asked in a frightened tone. “Please let me out, we have to tell Sherlock.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll tell him.”

“Oh thank goodness. Let me free so we can leave before whoever did this comes back.”

“That's something I can't do, I'm afraid.” John replied, walking slowly into the room and around behind Mrs. Hudson.

“What do you mean?” She asked, craning her head so that she could look at John again.

“You're the final piece of the puzzle, Mrs. Hudson. All this time I've been creating a puzzle for Sherlock, something that would be worthy of his attention, something that would bring him back to London. First it was Lestrade, then that pest that Mycroft sent after me, then Molly Hooper, and now you. You're the piece that will make Sherlock realize that leaving London, and everyone he cared about, was stupid. Because when you leave something so precious behind without a second thought, you lose it.” John's voice was low and methodical. Every word he said seemed to drip with malice, and with every word Mrs. Hudson understood more clearly what was about to happen. Her pleads for freedom had turned into slow sobs now as she realized that she was going to die at the hand of John Watson.

“Why John?” Mrs. Hudson asked through her sobs, John could see her whole body trembling with fear.

“I just told you why.” John replied, irritated.

“Why did you turn into such a monster?”

“Because that's what happens when you lose everything you ever cared about!” John yelled. Mrs. Hudson jumped at the intensity of his words and he could only barely hear her frightened sobs over the pulsing anger that had taken over his thoughts. John walked around in front of the sobbing woman. Her arms had been bound at the forearm tightly and positioned in front of her. John plucked the large knife that he had used on Lestrade from it's sheath and seized Mrs. Hudson's arms, pulling them forward. Without a word he slashed both of her wrists deeply, she let out a small sob as he did so. John made several more cuts of the same manner up the elderly woman's arms before stopping to wipe his blade on her trousers. He pulled out his mobile and dialed Sherlock's number, but hesitated before he pressed the 'call' button. He looked at Mrs. Hudson as she sobbed in her chair, then used the blade of his knife to tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

“When I call Sherlock you're going to tell him to come here at once. Tell him 'Baker Street, come at once if convenient'. It's only a bit before I told him to show up in my note, but it'll make for a better show this way. By the time he gets here, I'm afraid it'll be too late for you, but at least your death will make more of an impact on him.” John instructed. Mrs. Hudson only nodded ever so slightly and John pressed the call button, then put the call on speaker. It only rang twice before Sherlock answered.

“John.” He answered in a cool voice.

“Sherlock...” Mrs. Hudson had choked out her reply through tears. The line was silent for a moment before he spoke again.

“Where are you?”

“Baker Street,” she replied in an almost whisper, ringing with grief, “come at once, if convenient.”

“Are you with John?” Sherlock asked frantically, recognizing the words as Mrs. Hudson spoke them. The landlady was racked with sobs again and John hadn't the patience for this any longer. He took his mobile off of speaker and pressed it to his ear.

“If inconvenient, come anyway.” He said into the phone. Sherlock began to reply, but John ended the call before he could hear anything.

“I hope he catches you.” Mrs. Hudson said weakly as John tucked his mobile away and strode for the door. He turned back and smiled at the woman.

“I hope he does, too.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock

 

“If inconvenient, come anyway.” John's voice rang over Sherlock's mobile and shook him to his core. He had never heard John's voice so thick with malice, he didn't even think John _capable_ of malice, but he had been proven wrong. _No matter what I do, I can't save anyone._ Sherlock thought to himself as he tapped the 'end call' button on his screen and looked absently toward his brother. He had gone to the Diogenes Club to gather his thoughts and, as much as he hated to admit it, employ Mycroft's help. He hadn't wanted to get the government involved in this, he still had some hope, however quickly fading it may have been, that he could save John and restore him to normal. It was now clear to him that he had been a fool for thinking that in the first place. John was going to complete his plan no matter what.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked with a concerned tone. Sherlock couldn't recall the last time he'd heard something like that in his brother's voice, but now wasn't the time to ponder that.

“We need to get to Baker Street, now! Mrs. Hudson is dying.” Sherlock replied, donning his belstaff and scarf and fleeing out the door before Mycroft could even push himself to his feet from the chair behind his desk. Sherlock didn't have time to wait, every moment he spent here was another moment that he could be spending saving Mrs. Hudson. The Diogenes Club was a painful fifteen minute drive from Baker Street via cab, so Sherlock confiscated one of Mycroft's many black Jaguars and sped to his destination. He made it in seven minutes flat, and had angered several other drivers in the process. Once he arrived he didn't even take the time to turn the car off, he simply jumped out of the driver's seat, leaving the door to the car wide open, and dashed into the building where he knew he would find Mrs. Hudson. He didn't bother checking her flat, he knew exactly where she would be. He climbed the stairs faster than he ever had before and saw her before he even reached the landing. He rushed in the door and fell to his knees in front of her. Blood was running from several deep cuts on her arms, down her legs and pooling on the floor beneath her. She lifted her head wearily when she heard him enter, clearly weak from the amount of blood she'd lost.

“What has he done to you?” Sherlock asked, pain evident in his voice as he reached up to cradle the elderly woman's face in his hands. Her cheeks were stained with tears that still flowed freely down her face, but a look of relief washed over her when she looked at him.

“It's John.” Mrs. Hudson croaked weakly.

“I know.” Sherlock answered. “I'll call an ambulance. You'll be fine, don't worry.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson reached her bound hands up to her face and took Sherlock's hand in hers, “it's too late. They're not going to save me. Don't waste your time on an old woman like me. Go and catch him, before he can do this to someone else.”

“I'm not giving up!” Sherlock said firmly, he didn't know what to think. He could feel her pulse, it was so weak, he knew in the back of his mind that nothing could be done. She'd lost so much blood, he'd be surprised if he could even finish the phone call before she passed on, but every one of his instincts were screaming at him to save her. To do whatever he could to make this better. He was irrational. _Caring is not an advantage._ Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice in the back of his head. Perhaps his brother had been right about that.

“Then don't give up,” Mrs. Hudson struggled, her breathing had slowed and it was beginning to get harder for her to speak. She squeezed Sherlock's hand, “go and catch him and bring him to justice for what he's done. Don't let him get away with it.”

Sherlock fought to hold back the tears welling, stinging and threatening to fall as he watched the woman he had considered to be a mother fade out of existence before his eyes. He only watched and held onto her hand as her breathing got slower and slower and then stopped. Sherlock checked her pulse, just to be sure that it was real, when he felt nothing he untied her and laid her on the sofa before calling Scotland Yard to inform them of another murder. They'd had questions for him, but he hung up and left them begging for an answer. He had much more important things to attend to now. Sherlock dialed John's number and paced the floor as he waited for an answer.

“Sherlock.” John's voice sounded bright and cheerful, which did not help Sherlock's darkened mood in the least. “How are you?”

“How am I?” Sherlock's voice was almost as dripping with malice as John's had been at the end of the call he'd forced Mrs. Hudson to make while she was dying. “I don't think that's the best question to ask me right now.”

“What's wrong?” John sounded genuinely confused. “I thought you'd be happy to speak with me.”

“Happy? After what you've just done? John, you've killed every one of my friends. You've killed them all in horrible, painful ways. You even killed an innocent man that was only placed there to ensure Mycroft that you were doing well after my death. You killed everyone in cold blood, and for what? To bring me back to London? Well, congratulations, here I am! Too bad I won't be coming to visit you in prison!” Sherlock couldn't remember ever being so angry with someone in his entire life.

“What do you mean?” John asked, hurt in his voice. “I thought you'd be happy to be back. I thought that you'd be happy that I made such an elaborate puzzle for you to solve. I only did it so that we could go back to normal, solving crimes together and living at 221B.”

“If you honestly think that I would ever even think of doing any of that with you again after what you've done, you belong in an asylum. How could you think that killing everyone that I care about could possibly make me want to spend time with you? Right now, I want nothing more than to strangle you with my bare hands, but I won't do that, because that would be too easy for you. I want you alive, I want you to go to prison, and I want you to suffer for the rest of your life knowing what you've done to these innocent people. But, most of all, if you've done this to bring me back, I want you alive so that you can go on living knowing that I truly _loathe_ you for what you've done. I will never forgive this, John Watson, not for as long as I live.”

“Do you really feel that way?” John asked slowly and quietly, every ounce of happiness that had been in his voice had been struck out by the anger that Sherlock had shown him.

“Yes. I truly do.” Sherlock answered.

“Well then, do me this last kindness and come to Bart's. If I'm going to prison, I'd at least like to see my best friend one last time.”

“You don't have the privilege of referring to me as your 'best friend' any longer, but if that's what you want, I'll meet you there.” Sherlock said, then took a deep breath. “When I received that first one word message from you, I was determined that I could come here and stop whatever you were doing. I wanted nothing more than to save you so that we could do exactly what you apparently set out to get back. I couldn't let myself believe that you were a monster, but you proved me wrong today.”

“Sher...” John started, but Sherlock hung up and shoved his mobile into the pocket of his coat and with one last look at Mrs. Hudson, strode out the door to 221B Baker Street for the last time.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock had only been a bit surprised to see that the car he'd brought to Baker Street was still sitting in the spot he had left it in. The door was still wide open and then engine was still running, but that only made it easier, and faster, for him to get in and make his way to Bart's. He wasn't sure how much time had actually passed on his way, but it felt like the blink of an eye to him. He parked somewhere he was sure he wasn't supposed to park in front of the hospital and made his way toward the entrance. Just as he'd started to pass the small building that stood in front of the hospital, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. It was John. He debated for a moment whether he should answer or not, but he did so anyway and kept walking toward the entrance.

“I'm here, where are you?” Sherlock asked in an irritated tone.

“Stop where you are.” John spoke clearly and calmly and Sherlock obeyed his command.

“Where are you?” Sherlock asked again.

“Go back to where you parked your car.”

“Just tell me where...”

“GO BACK!” John yelled and Sherlock, again, did as he was told.

“Fine, now tell me where you are.” Sherlock said again, growing more and more impatient.

“Look up.”

“What?”

“Look. Up.” John repeated. Sherlock craned his neck up to see John standing on the roof of Bart's in the very same place he had stood when he jumped from the roof two years ago.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, and as much as he didn't want to, he felt scared.

“This is funny isn't it? It's funny how much things can change. Some people might call this irony.” John said, his voice was flat, calm, like he had accepted everything that was about to happen.

“John...”

“It's my turn to talk now.” John cut Sherlock off before he could plead with him to stop whatever he was planning. “For two years I knew you were alive, out there somewhere. I tried to think of everything I could do or say to get you to come back here. My life was meaningless until I met you. I didn't know what to do with myself after I got back to London. I lead a stupidly dull existence in a one room flat by myself, and then I met you, and we had so many adventures. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to have all that ripped away, but know that you were still alive?”

“I feel like I might have some idea.” Sherlock said sadly, gazing up at John's silhouette against the gray sky.

“Well, you're wrong. Because while you were off doing whatever you were doing, having adventures and solving crimes, I was stuck here. I was plucked out of my exciting life and thrust back into the overwhelming dullness of my former existence, and you didn't even care.”

“If you think for a second that leaving everyone I cared for here, letting everyone think I was dead, didn't have any kind of effect on me, then you don't know the first thing about me. So many times I wanted to tell you that I was alive, but you were in danger, everyone was! You and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty threatened to kill you all if I didn't jump off of that roof. I only did it to save you, and look what it got me! Everyone I cared about still ended up dead, and the only person left has turned into a monster!”

“Well,” John laughed sadly into the phone, “I guess that will make this next bit that much easier for you to deal with.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, watching John's silhouette adamantly. John didn't make a reply. He simply threw his mobile onto the roof behind him and let himself fall over the edge. In that moment, Sherlock realized what it must have been like for John on that day. He watched John, limbs flailing as he plummeted toward the ground. Sherlock didn't remember it taking this long when he had fallen from the same building. It seemed like time had slowed itself to a crawl as he watched the person who was once his best friend fall and make contact with the pavement below with a sickening thud. Sherlock couldn't see the impact, but for some reason he got the feeling that John hadn't pulled off the same stunt he had. He heard a woman scream as he began to move toward the scene. He hadn't started out running, but before he rounded the small building in front of the hospital he had broken into a full sprint, pushing past bystanders to make his way to where John lay on the pavement.

Every horrible emotion that Sherlock could think of ran through his head at the same time. Sadness, anger, resentment, pain. They all flooded him all at once as he fell to his knees by the body of his best friend. He had driven his friend to this by doing the very same thing that John had just done, only with a less permanent ending. Sherlock knew that the things he'd said to John over the phone while he was still at 221B were what caused him to make this decision, and even though John had done horrible things since Sherlock returned to London, he couldn't help but be sad at the loss of his best friend. He found himself doing the very same thing John had done when he ran to Sherlock after his fall. He checked for a pulse, but there was nothing. Just to appease his curiosity, he checked under his arm for a squash ball, that had been how Sherlock had cut off his own pulse to convince John that he was dead, there was nothing there. John's gray eyes stared unblinking up at the sky, his hair was matted down with the blood from the wound on his head caused by his impact.

At that moment, while Sherlock watched hospital employees carrying his former best friend away, he couldn't help but blame himself. He had never felt this level of sadness, knowing that everyone he had ever cared about was dead, and all he would have had to do to avoid it was send just one word.

 


End file.
